afinaldream

[afinaldream]

Reblogging on my not-so-secret sideblog as a treat (or a threat to myself), the first part of the first chapter.

***

The pub is not as lively as Ginny expected. Music plays in the background, an inviting beat, but the few people inside seem more interested in talking than dancing. For a moment she considers just finding somewhere else, then gives up. A drink is a drink anywhere, and she should fly low today anyway.

Tomorrow already promises far more emotion than she would like to entertain.

She sits by the bar. A blond woman at the other side of the corner comes quickly.

"Welcome to The Mimbulus Mimbletonia! My name is Hannah—what can I get you, gorgeous?"

"A pint for starters."

"Starters," the barwoman replies, approving. "You should check my tequila list."

Ginny smiles back. "I will." 

She gazes around; the pub is small, not as boisterous as she is used to, but intimate all the same. She taps on the corner at the rhythm of the song playing loudly, and, when she looks to the side, she spots the bright green eyes of the guy sitting a few benches down.

He turns away at once, clearly flustered at being caught; it’s surprisingly endearing. She finds herself watching him; he is about her age, twenty something, old enough to buy a drink without any trouble, young enough to get himself purposefully in trouble. His profile invites a closer look – dark messy hair, aquiline nose, a couple-days-old stubble, round glasses that make him look smart; broad-shouldered, strong but not burly, just her type of guy. He buries his hand into his hair and she almost envies him for it before forcing herself to look away. She shouldn’t be pining after a strange guy in a bar.

When Hannah comes back a few minutes later, it is with a far fancier drink than Ginny was expecting.

"Fizz," she says, then eyes meaningfully the guy at the other corner, the one that Ginny had just been checking out—no, the guy who was checking her out. "He sent it to you."

Ginny glances at him; the man is fidgeting with his hands now. Nervous, not cocky. Cute, but not enough.

"Thanks, but send it back."

The woman stares at her for a moment before shrugging. Ginny steals another glance as the drink is returned; the man accepts it, his expression clearly mortified now, and he mumbles something to the barwoman, who nods.

Then the barwoman returns with her pint. "He says he is terribly sorry and asks that you forgive him. He didn’t mean to bother you."

"He said all that?" A short nod. "How often does he give that speech?"

Hannah's smile flickers. "He’s not like that," that’s all she says, sounding strangely reproachful, and Ginny is suddenly reminded of her mother.

She shouldn’t, but guilt fills her anyway. 

Another woman joins the counter, asking for a drink; she eyes the man at the bench, looking as approvingly as Ginny felt before, and far bolder—long eyelashes flickering, body leaned to highlight her best features, a killer smile—, but the man doesn’t seem to take notice. He is biting his lip, one hand twirling the straw of his Gin Fizz lazily, the other supporting his head. Under the lights, she notices his eyes are green, a deep forest green that shines almost sadly.

And then, before she can stop herself from doing something stupid, Ginny finds herself sliding off her booth and joining him.

Thinking before acting was never her strongest feature.

“You are going to dilute the foam,” she says.

He jumps, turning to her with widened eyes; they are a really beautiful shade of green indeed. “Sorry?”

“The foam is the best part of the drink.” She turns to the barwoman, and ignores the amused look that she finds there. “Can you get me a Gin Fizz?”

Hannah nods, moving away. The man watches her now, his confusion written plainly on his face for her to read. “I had ordered you one.” 

“I order for myself,” she says, and because his expression doesn’t change, she adds, “It’s never wise to accept a drink from a stranger.”

“But—oh.” He flushes; his hand jumps to his hair, grabbing a fist of it, and Ginny is suddenly envious of him for doing it. His hair is pit-black and so messy. “I should have realised how it would look, sorry.” A tiny smile on his lips then, almost shy. “I don’t usually do this.”

She is ready to question this—this guy is fit, he is bloody gorgeous, and he is sitting in a pub by himself on a Thursday night, sending a drink to a girl he didn’t know. That had to be his style because in her experience, hot guys just acted like that: proud, haught, convinced they would get any woman they wanted.

But this guy looks nervous as if he has shown up to an exam he hasn’t studied for at all—maybe in a class he doesn’t even take—and she knows he is being truthful.

She can admire him for his guts, then.

“Everyone starts somewhere,” she says, offering him a smile that he returns with a bit more confidence now. “What was your plan?”

“My plan?”

“Yes, if I had accepted the drink, what would you do, then?”

“Honestly, I hadn’t figured that out yet. I’m more of an act-first-think-later kind of guy.” He sounds sheepish. Ginny laughs, amused, and his eyes shine with it.

“Same,” she admits, and there is a moment of silence that stretches too long as they look at each other. 

Then her drink arrives, and Ginny blinks, looking away; Hannah is smirking now, too knowingly for Ginny’s taste.

Her face burns and she pretends it’s the alcohol even though she hasn’t even drunk it yet.

“Here,” he offers, raising his glass. “A toast?”

He is looking at her now, his gaze holding hers; everything about him is very easy as if she is staring at an open book that’s just waiting for her to turn its pages.

Her heart skips a beat.

“Sure,” and they toast. 

Ginny sips her drink, and then he chuckles, a low sound that warms her more than it should. “The foam,” he says as an explanation. “You have a tiny moustache.”

She flushes, raising her hand, but then she opts to lick her lips, and his eyes follow the movement, a shade darker now before he looks down, trembling hands gripping his glass.

“You know,” she whispers, “if you want to hook up with a strange girl in a bar, getting embarrassed doesn’t improve your chances.”

He glances at her, somewhat relaxing when he does it. “This is my first time,” he admits, sipping his drink once again.

Ginny lifts her eyebrows. “Don’t tell me you’ve never had sex before.”

He splutters on the drink, face as red as her hair now, coughing; she taps his back, not hiding her smirk.

“I was just teasing you. There is no way a guy like you is still a virgin.”

He blinks through teary eyes. “What do you mean, a guy like me?”

It’s her turn to blush now, caught, and it doesn’t help that his gaze is fixed on her pink cheeks.

“Well,” she says, trying to sound dismissive. “You are a gorgeous guy.”

She is just saying the plain truth, so there is no reason to be embarrassed about it, does it? This guy is gorgeous, not in an obvious way, but the kind of guy that exudes some charm, that makes you want to take a second look and then, the more you look, the more you find something capturing your attention. The shape of his lips; the dimples at the corner that speak of his laughs. The dark green pool of his eyes, and how it’s a shade lighter at the centre; his untamed windy hair. And, if you were lucky enough to witness it as Ginny was starting to realise she was, the glint of his eyes, something true and inviting.

Her heart takes another leap, and this time Ginny won’t be a fool to blame any drink.

“What are you doing here?” She asks, admonishing herself for sounding a little nervous now, but not for how soft her voice is. “If you are not used to picking girls like this?”

“Oh.” He supports his head on his arm now, smile flickering into a grimace. “I was taking a friend’s advice. Very questionable.”

“The friend or the advice?”

He snorted. “Both. My friend is marrying his highschool sweetheart. I don’t think he is an expert on casual, but he told me that…”

The awkwardness is back on his face. Ginny raises her eyebrows.

“He said that getting laid was going to fix your problems?” She suggests, and then chuckles and his mouth drops open. “That’s the kind of thing my brothers say. They are morons,” her voice is filled with fondness for a moment, “but sometimes they are right.” Ginny tilts her head, watching him curiously. “What kind of problem is haunting you?”

He closes his mouth then, suddenly blank, all easeness gone.

Ginny grimaces. “Oh, not my business, I get it.”

“It’s not—I just don’t want to talk about it.”

“Okay.” She understands it; there are plenty of things Ginny doesn’t feel like discussing at the moment, and if this guy is telling the truth—and she just knows he is—there must be something that drove him to go to a bar and offer a drink to a girl he doesn’t know for the first time in his life.

“Can I ask you something?” His voice is polite; Ginny nods. “Why did you come here?”

Ginny looks around. “It was the first pub I found down the street.”

“No, I meant—why did you come to talk to me?”

“I—I don’t know.” She feels trapped by his eyes; he isn’t just inquiring, but he actually seems to care for her answer. “You puzzled me.” And because this feels too intimate, she adds, “And you were ruining the Fizz.”

He nods, face breaking into a laugh. “You were right, the foam was the best part.”

She exchanges a grin with him—which may be a mistake, because then their joy fades into something that feels like expectation, a sudden pull that she cannot seem to escape.

“Why me?” She asks, slightly out of breath as if she had run miles. “Of all the people here—why did you send me a drink?”

The pub wasn’t very crowded, but there were pretty women there, some on their own, some who had glanced at him; heavens, Ginny had seen one of them trying to get his attention. There was no reason for him to try picking her up; she is pretty sure her expression hadn’t been invitingly, not with the stormy cloud over her head that week.

But his eyes shine warmly and he is looking at her in a way that Ginny can just tell he hasn’t spared anyone else that night. “You looked troubled,” he says earnestly. “And I wondered what could upset a woman so beautiful.”

It’s not a rehearsed line, it’s not said with hidden intentions, it’s not overly sweet.

And it works.

“Two troubled people finding each other. How poetic.” He grins invitingly, and this is the third and final time that Ginny ignores any rationality in favour of just jumping in. “Okay.”

“Okay what?”

“If you still want to hook up with a random woman you’ve just met—okay.”

He nearly falls from his bench. “I—I—” He runs a hand through his hair, eyes sweeping over her face as if he is wondering whether she truly means it. “I want it.”

Those three words send her heart into a frenzy; it’s addictive.

“Okay,” she repeats, jumping to her feet; he takes a second to follow her, and then Ginny is lifting her head. She hadn’t realised how tall he was. “Ah—” For a moment she loses her trail of thoughts, but then she grabs her purse, fumbling for some change to pay her bill.

“Here,” he offers, already handing a note to the barwoman.

Ginny shakes her head, giving her own money. “No, I—”

“You order for yourself,” he remembers, sounding only affectionate. His head is bent down towards her, but he doesn’t seem to mind; he raises his hand, and after a heartbeat in which she doesn’t push him away, his finger brushes her face very softly as he pulls wisps of her hair behind her ear. 

The touch leaves a trail of fire on her cheek, but also, strangely, brings her some sense.

“Look… If we will do this—I mean—I already have my fair share of troubles, you know?”

“Hum,” he mumbles. Ginny takes it as an agreement.

“And I think you’ve already got yours, so—” Her voice shakes; the back of his hand is caressing her jaw, his thumb brushing the corner of her lips. “So this is just your classic one night stand.”

That makes him pause, his gaze now meeting hers; there’s relief and also an inopportune disappointment when he nods.

“Just two strangers meeting,” he agrees, but then he tilts his head, curious. “What’s your name?”

“Strangers,” Ginny reinforces. “No names. You can call me…” Her gaze falls over her half-drunk cocktail. “Gin.”

“Gin,” he repeats, eyes shining. “It suits you. I’m guessing this makes me Fizz.”

“Fizz.” It doesn’t match him as well for some reason, but it’s okay. All rules of the one night stand dictates that she shouldn’t get attached, and if he’s wearing some sort of mask, it is easier.

“Should we—”

“Yeah,” Ginny agrees, though she isn’t sure what to do now; she grabs her cloak, pulling it around her shoulders, and walks to the exit. It may be her imagination, but it seems as if everyone is staring at them, judging her, because Ginny Weasley never seems to do anything right—

The cool air of the night helps a little, but not so much. It’s this country, Ginny thinks suddenly, bitter than anything she might drink; she had avoided so long getting back there.

“You are troubled again.”

Ginny turns again. He — Fizz — is standing next to her, watching her intently; the wind is blowing softly on his hair.

“Yes,” Ginny admits. She takes a step closer to him, and Fizz shivers. “I don’t want any trouble tonight.”

And she rises to her tiptoes, locks her hands behind his neck, and lets their lips meet.

*** Coming soon ***

[afinaldream]

Reblogging this here, in case it interests anyone 🤭

Can’t not ask about A duel

Oooh 🤭 This is the official file for this little thing here:

The provisory title for this WIP is based on this paragraph:

Lily’s eyes finally meet his; there is sorrow in her eyes, and once again James knows she doesn’t want to marry whoever she is promised to. A duel, he thinks, I will duel for her—

Now, if there will be a duel, and if James is going to duel him, of all people...

[afinaldream]

Will you write Harry's pov or a sequel to Ginny falls first no voldy au?

Ohhh, to be honest, I had that excerpt written for a long time but I was feeling quite insecure; the love I got after posting it, though, has made me go back to my draft and I hope to continue it, yeah! There are some interactions between Harry and Ginny that are very cute in this universe!

Thanks for your support! 🥰

[afinaldream]

From a No-Voldemort AU WIP that hopefully will see the light of the day this year. 1.6k words of Ginny pining after Harry.

Harry has the warmest smile Ginny has ever seen in anyone.

It makes her think of hot chocolate, the kind she raises in the middle of the night to prepare in the kitchen, enjoying the sweetness that brings good dreams when she goes back to sleep. She wonders if kissing him would taste like chocolate too.

It's not likely she will ever know. He won't ever look at her as if she is anything more than Ron's little sister.

So she goes back to watch him from afar, wishing there was some way of vanishing those stupid feelings inside her, some magical potion to stop her heart from beating faster when he gives that lopsided grin, the one that shows all happiness inside him.

That's really his most attractive feature. Harry is so happy, all the time, that his face seems to glow — the infectious grin, the sparkle of his bright green eyes, the way he never stops moving. He is lively.

His eyes catch hers before Ginny can look away and pretend to be interested in anything else, and she feels a blush coming to her face that she hopes she can account for the heat. It's a really warm August day, especially here in the South of England, so no one can fault her for being pinker than usual.

But instead of noticing she is flustered for being caught ogling him, Harry gestures for her to come closer and Ginny walks towards him, unable to refuse him. She is hopeless and she knows it, but it's hard to care when Harry's eyes are turned to her.

“Your brother is crazy,” Harry tells her as soon as she joins his side, in a carried whisper that's obviously to be heard by Ron at his other side.

“Took you four years to realize?” Ginny quips back, sounding properly shocked.

Harry's smile increases in the same proportion Ron looks outraged.

And then those unstoppable butterflies open wings in her stomach, something nicer and scarier than flying. He is so nice that she really wishes she could see him in the same fraternal way that he always treats her.

Her life would be much easier if she didn't fancy her brother's best friend.

“Watch it,” Ron says smugly. “You'll see I am right after tonight's match.”

“Are you still betting on Puddlemere? They'll be crushed by the Harpies tonight — er—” Ginny throws a brief glance at Harry, not minding her smirk then. “No offence to your dad, Harry.”

He just laughs. “None taken, I am betting on the Harpies too. Their beaters are just too good, and their new seeker is amazing.”

“Sure, Felicia Howe is amazing,” Ron agrees, though his smirk tells Ginny that he is not thinking about the same qualities that Harry was referring to. Sitting on a bench next to them, Hermione raises her head from her book long enough to let out a disdainful sigh that makes Ron blush and gag. “Er — I mean, as a seeker. She is an amazing player, that’s all.”

Harry's eyes catch Ginny's again, but this time she doesn't blush. This is just one of their secret exchanges, the look they share whenever Ron and Hermione are being completely stupid about the fact they fancy each other. It's happens a lot.

“But Puddlemere has very seasoned chasers,” Ron adds, his voice somehow enough to make Ginny turn her gaze away from Harry; so far she has been very good at keeping her feelings unknown to her brothers, and Ginny would rather this does not change; they would never let the topic go. “If the match is long enough, they might win.”

“Howe has set records in this season for fastest captures of the Golden Snitch,” Ginny reminds him, while Harry nods his head.

“That's her move, catching the Snitch before any disadvantage becomes too evident in the game,” he agrees, and then he turns to Ginny with that bloody glorious smirk that turns her insides into jelly. “Which proves how seekers are much more valuable than chasers.”

It's an old discussion, one that Ginny remembers siding with Harry's dad in the living room of the Potter's house, her and James Potter against Harry in the defence of the important role of chasers in a team. They always use the same arguments (“it's all about teamwork, chasers often decide the result of the game” versus “you need three chasers for one goal that's only worth ten points?”), so it's more for the sake of the discussion than for anything else.

She knows how she should answer, but Harry is looking at her, his tanned skin contrasting with the white shirt he is using, his eyes sparkling behind his glasses, and Ginny cannot for her life think of a reasonable answer. He has grown over the summer too, which Ginny carefully admired while they were on the beach, and she can only be glad he is wearing a shirt right now, or she would do something stupid like drool or compose a poem about him.

“Fine,” Harry sighs when she doesn't answer. “Chasers are a little important.”

Ginny forces herself to breathe.

“They have all the fun,” she says, glad that her voice comes out steady. “You know, while the seeker is out there just bored out of his mind.”

“Bored!” Harry scoffs teasingly. “As if. There is so much happening on the field — it's not like the bludgers ignore us. You know it's much dangerous being a seeker—”

Ginny loses herself happily in her discussion with Harry. That’s the main problem of having a crush on him — they are friends. Sure, Harry is closer to Ron and Hermione, just as Ginny is closer to her friends in her year, but when it comes to that easy talk, Harry and Ginny are unbeatable. He was the first person she ever told about her flying abilities and Harry had been the one to encourage her to fly in front of her brothers — their jaws had dropped, it had been totally worth it — and then had introduced her to his father, who was one of Ginny’s idols in Quidditch.

And last year, when he needed a friend to go with him to the Yule Ball, Ginny had accepted his invitation. Harry never said exactly he was asking her as a friend, but Ginny was not stupid; she had seen the way he’d looked at Cho Chang, splendid in the arms of the Hogwarts champion, and she had known what it meant. She had helped him ease his mind, though, because they were friends — and as such, she’d danced with him and they had shared a laugh over Ron’s jealousy of Hermione and then they had finished the night rating other couple’s dance moves (Malfoy and Parkinson had gotten a five for being a git, Neville and Hannah had been the only ten of the night because they danced perfectly and Harry had given himself and Ginny a very respectable eight, because even though none of them were good dancers, they had enjoyed themselves and that counted points).

But when the party had ended, they had gone back to the Common Room — one of the last couples to do so — and they had said their goodbyes at the edge of the stairs to their own dormitories.

“I had a really good time tonight,” Harry had said, that warm smile on his face. “Thank you, Ginny.”

“You were not a bad date either,” she had replied teasingly.

And then there was a moment of silence, one that lasted seconds longer than it should and it was enough for Ginny to realise how her heart was thumping impossibly fast with a longing burning inside her as she stared at Harry, still looking handsome in his dress robes.

He was really handsome, she remembers thinking with a start. It was not that she had not noticed it before, but this was the first time she’d understood what that attraction really meant and it wasn’t that crush she’d harboured after seeing him embarking the Hogwarts Express years ago. And she had realised how much she wanted to share a goodnight kiss with him then, how much she wished they had not gone together as friends.

But Harry had done nothing more than pass his hand over her hair, in the most brotherly gesture she could think of, and Ginny had just nodded and turned around to go to her own dormitory, fighting back the heaviness on her chest. Harry would never look at her in any other way than that friendly way. She could understand it — if he saw Ron as his brother, he’d see her in the same way.

Ginny had tried to forget those stupid feelings, knowing perfectly well that Harry was pining for another girl and that they were pointless. It was easier said than done, however, especially when he was just so oblivious to how wonderful he was.

Once or twice it had come to her mind that she could take the large step of faith and just ask him out. Just one date, a real one, enough for him to know how she felt about him and, if he accepted it, enough for them to know if they could turn their friendship into something more. But Ginny knew that this would mean tainting their friendship and that she didn’t want to risk it; in a bad scenario, he would reject her and it would become obvious that her feelings were completely one-sided; in an even worst scenario, Harry would accept out of pity.

Whatever feelings she harboured for him, they were friends first.

Which meant there is only one thing for her to do. Get over him.

[afinaldream]

“This is the last time, James,” she warns him, even as she accepts his arms around her waist and raises her head, already searching for his lips.

James chuckles, mouth only brushing hers before sliding the curve of her neck. She smells like peaches. “That is what you said last time,” he notes.

She sighs, a blend of excitement and unhappiness. “I mean it, my—” A moan escapes her lips when he finds that spot she favours under her ear. “My—my father is going to announce my betrothal.”

“Marry me instead,” he suggests without losing a breath.

Her laugh is nervous now. “You know I cannot.”

“I would ask for your hand, very proper,” he says as his hand traces her dress, places her leg around his waist. Another moan. “I will tell him I cannot stop thinking about you.”

She pants, but manages to break away from his kiss this time; her green eyes, that shade of emerald that hasn't left his mind ever since he first contemplated her weeks ago at the other side of the ballroom, are sparkling with a touch of caution.

“We agreed this would stay between us.”

“And I respected it,” he assures her. He hasn’t told a soul about their meetings, not even his friends, but now the weight of the secrecy feels suddenly unbearable.

“This was just for innocent fun.”

He nods again, though with less certainty. Few things they had done had been innocent, and though it had started just for fun, indeed, James doubted it still remained so. There was something about Miss Lily Evans that drew him to her—and she to him, he knows it.

But this is not the moment to convince her of it, not yet.

“I will not do anything that might cause you any harm,” he promises, and he knows she will hear the sincerity in his words.

She does; relief floods her eyes, and then she is kissing him, lips demandingly with the urgency of someone who believes this is their last time indeed. James lets her; no matter what her father’s marriage plans are, he will talk to Mr. Evans, and with her betrothed if needed. James is a good match, after all, and Lily… he can’t lose her. He won’t.

This is the thought that keeps him sane when they depart, and later, when he meets her at the ball and her lips are still swollen; she bows to him, very respectful, refusing to acknowledge him. He watches her as she accepts a few dances, wondering who will be her betrothed, who will hold her hand in public, who will have her kisses in private—

His mood subdues as the night goes on. Lily refuses to look in his direction even when she walks close to him, following her father to the library, and his fingers brush over the skin of her arms; she shivers but doesn’t look back as the door closes behind her.

He is alone by the time she comes back at last, his friends having left him to brood alone; James can’t blame them. He was too miserable to be in good company, and not even Sirius, who looked just as tense that night, was enough to distract him.

Lily’s eyes finally meet his; there is sorrow in her eyes, and once again James knows she doesn’t want to marry whoever she is promised to. A duel, he thinks, I will duel for her—

But Lily turns away from him; her smile is dutiful as she offers her hand to her new fiance. And James can only look as Sirius takes her hand into his and kisses it gently.

[afinaldream]

“This is the last time, James,” she warns him, even as she accepts his arms around her waist and raises her head, already searching for his lips.

James chuckles, mouth only brushing hers before sliding the curve of her neck. She smells like peaches. “That is what you said last time,” he notes.

She sighs, a blend of excitement and unhappiness. “I mean it, my—” A moan escapes her lips when he finds that spot she favours under her ear. “My—my father is going to announce my betrothal.”

“Marry me instead,” he suggests without losing a breath.

Her laugh is nervous now. “You know I cannot.”

“I would ask for your hand, very proper,” he says as his hand traces her dress, places her leg around his waist. Another moan. “I will tell him I cannot stop thinking about you.”

She pants, but manages to break away from his kiss this time; her green eyes, that shade of emerald that hasn't left his mind ever since he first contemplated her weeks ago at the other side of the ballroom, are sparkling with a touch of caution.

“We agreed this would stay between us.”

“And I respected it,” he assures her. He hasn’t told a soul about their meetings, not even his friends, but now the weight of the secrecy feels suddenly unbearable.

“This was just for innocent fun.”

He nods again, though with less certainty. Few things they had done had been innocent, and though it had started just for fun, indeed, James doubted it still remained so. There was something about Miss Lily Evans that drew him to her—and she to him, he knows it.

But this is not the moment to convince her of it, not yet.

“I will not do anything that might cause you any harm,” he promises, and he knows she will hear the sincerity in his words.

She does; relief floods her eyes, and then she is kissing him, lips demandingly with the urgency of someone who believes this is their last time indeed. James lets her; no matter what her father’s marriage plans are, he will talk to Mr. Evans, and with her betrothed if needed. James is a good match, after all, and Lily… he can’t lose her. He won’t.

This is the thought that keeps him sane when they depart, and later, when he meets her at the ball and her lips are still swollen; she bows to him, very respectful, refusing to acknowledge him. He watches her as she accepts a few dances, wondering who will be her betrothed, who will hold her hand in public, who will have her kisses in private—

His mood subdues as the night goes on. Lily refuses to look in his direction even when she walks close to him, following her father to the library, and his fingers brush over the skin of her arms; she shivers but doesn’t look back as the door closes behind her.

He is alone by the time she comes back at last, his friends having left him to brood alone; James can’t blame them. He was too miserable to be in good company, and not even Sirius, who looked just as tense that night, was enough to distract him.

Lily’s eyes finally meet his; there is sorrow in her eyes, and once again James knows she doesn’t want to marry whoever she is promised to. A duel, he thinks, I will duel for her—

But Lily turns away from him; her smile is dutiful as she offers her hand to her new fiance. And James can only look as Sirius takes her hand into his and kisses it gently.

[afinaldream]

family of two

(Hinny, 1k words, post-war)

The water flows heavily over the empty sink. Ginny watches it for a moment before sighing and shutting off the tap. She dries her hands and, when she turns, she finds her fiance leaning against the door jamb, watching her with a wrinkle between his brow.

She forces herself to smile calmly. “How are the little devils?”

“Passed away on the couch.”

“The bedroom was too far for them?”

A chuckle. “They wrecked the house so much during the day that I was surprised they’ve only slept now. I am expecting at least twelve hours of peace.”

Her smile is more natural now. “You wish. Teddy wakes up with the sun.”

“And when he does, so does Vic.” Harry sighs exaggeratedly, though she knows it’s more for show than anything; he clearly dotes on the kids. That clenches her throat. “Well, that’s— six hours and twenty-three minutes of peace.”

“We should only take them in during winter,” she reasons. “Fewer sun hours.”

Another chuckle, one that doesn’t disguise that furrow on his forehead. He walks to her, concern over joy winning his face with every step, and Ginny tries to shrug, turning around to start drying the dishes. Harry doesn’t let her; his arms pull her closer, taking the towel out of her hand, mouth brushing over her neck.

An invitation to let go of her worries.

“What’s on your mind?”

She leans against his chest, accepting his warmth. “Who says I’m worried?”

A small chuckle; the air coming from his nose makes her shiver. His lips trace her skin. “You sighed four times. You did the dishes without magic. Your shoulders are all stiff. Pick one.”

“You know me too well—this can’t be good for our relationship.”

“I thought that was the mark of a good relationship.” Harry places a kiss over the column of her neck. “But I don’t know what’s troubling you.”

“Maybe I can have some secrets.”

Harry sighs. “You can,” he agrees, and then he moves to sniff the scent of her hair as he has done hundreds of times before, as if this is the air he needs. His hands lose their grip and Ginny knows Harry is about to press one last kiss to her, and then move back, drawn away to give her the space she needs; and she knows that if he does, she will just store away her concern, hoping it fades away and then—then it will resurface when she is not ready to deal with it, stronger and scarier than she feels now.

“I don’t know if I want to have kids,” blurts Ginny.

She turns to face him, heart beating painfully in her chest. Harry is blinking, mouth opened almost comically, and she hopes it’s more because of how she said it than because of what she said.

Or not. She knows Harry has always sought a family, she knows how important it is to him. A part of her always imagined starting a family with him, but then it was a long-distance concept, something far in the future, when even her twenties seemed afar. She has witnessed a few pregnancies now in her sisters-in-law, has seen all the ways the parents have to adapt—she has a fair guess why Bill and Fleur love when Vic spends the night with her uncles or aunt—, has seen the impact and none of it has been appealing so far. If there is magic in being pregnant, she has not witnessed it yet.

Harry is still quiet.

“I know I don’t want them now,” she adds. “There are so many things happening—”

Harry coughs. “We are too young,” he agrees, almost in a conciliatory voice; Ginny supposes she could accept this path for their talk, but then it wouldn’t be fair.

“But I can’t tell you when I will want it either. Or if I will. And if this is too much—I will understand if—” She swallows hard, voice almost breaking. “If you want to be with someone that shares this urge—”

“Hey.” Harry seems alarmed now, arms wrapping her as if to steady her as much as himself. “I am not with you because I want your—your womb, or something—”

“I saw you with Teddy and Vic. Pampering them, dealing with their little conflicts, teaching them—you want to be a father.”

“No, I want a family. And I have it here, with you. If we are a family of two—so be it, then.” 

“And tomorrow—”

“Tomorrow I will still have you, your brothers, Hermione, Teddy. You are right, I’ve always wanted a family, the one I never got while growing up, and the thing is—I got it. I just didn’t want to be alone.”

“Harry, you will never be alone again.”

“I know it.” He smiles, his eyes shining as he sees something there with her and beyond. “And it’s not spreading my genes or seeing more Potters in the world that will change this, though—” He takes her hand, swirls the silver ring. “I would like at least one more Potter unless you are reconsidering letting me take your last name.”

Ginny laughs, some tension gone from her shoulders. “Harry Weasley would sound terrible,” she says, an echo of many conversations they’ve had about it, and just like all those times, Harry kisses her softly. “I’m sorry for dumping this on you,” she mumbles when they break apart. “It feels like something we should have discussed before, only I never considered how I felt about it, not really.”

“I’m glad we’ve had this conversation”, says Harry, and he sounds only earnest. “And I don’t want—I hope you never feel like there is something we can’t discuss. I love you.”

She presses her lips over his, lingering, just feeling the touch that can calm her more than anything else. “And I love you.” Ginny winks at him. “Do you wanna enjoy our remaining six hours of peace?”

Harry grins warmly. “How long until winter again?”

[afinaldream]

somewhere only we know

Oh, simple thing, where have you gone?

I'm gettin' old, and I need something to rely on

So, tell me when you're gonna let me in

I'm gettin' tired, and I need somewhere to begin

Jily. First War. Angst. Manipulation. Gray characters. Rated E. Text might change later. @startanewdream

Part 1

This is the day I’ll die.

That is not a good thought, but it is one that crosses Lily’s mind nevertheless, a familiar grim thought that escorts her every time there is an Order mission. It is not her first time, by any chance, not with their number so scarce and with Voldemort getting more powerful everyday, and she has a good track so far, but Lily knows that her luck could change in the blink of an eye.

She saw it happening with Dorcas, lively Dorcas, killed by Voldemort himself while Lily managed to get away by sheer luck. Two months later, she saw Voldemort’s spell missing her by inches only to hit Benjy, who she once dated, exploding him into bits, his blood splattering over her face; everything afterwards had blurred into horror and then darkness. Lily woke up days later in a hospital bed, alone and frightened.

There is no guarantee.

She wishes she could be alone, with her track of old partners having died while with her—Lily wonders if she is cursed, dramatic as that sounds—, but Dumbledore always organises their missions so they are at least paired. Constant vigilance, Moody barks in agreement, and it’s better having someone watch her back, she supposes.

And it’s already someone she knows, which should make it easier, except nothing about James Potter was ever easier.

“I can take the first watch if you want to rest,” James says, barely looking at her, positioning himself by the window where he has a view of the whole city square in front of the inn they are in.

“I am fine,” Lily mumbles, coming to the window and sitting on the other chair. The small table between them feels like a whole universe.

He doesn’t answer her; his face is mostly hidden in the shadows, the lights from the street not enough to show a face that Lily once spent hours studying, caressing, tracing every inch of it. She could draw his face better than her own; but that was a long time ago.

Not really, but one year seems an amount of time as infinite as the table between them.

Not for the first time since she found out who would be with her on this mission, she wishes it were anyone else. Maybe someone she doesn’t know very well—she got to know Dorcas, to share a few drinks and talk with her before… before—or even someone that still intimidates her like Mad-Eye. James falls in the same category as Benjy—someone from her past—but whereas things with Benjy ended easily, things with James are more complicated.

They were always more complicated.

The silence instals heavily in the room. Lily looks around, wishing they could turn on the lights, but it would just give it away their localization. It’s the middle of the night, after all, the sun still hours away from rising, and they are hiding. Her gaze falls to the only bed in the room, a beautiful canopy bed that seems to belong in a fairytale, the bed where the princess will fall asleep waiting for her charming prince… or where they will consume their wedding.

She blushes, now thankful for the darkness around them, and steals a glance towards James; he keeps his face turned to the square outside, still looking hundreds of miles away—or maybe he wishes to be. He isn’t happy to be there with her.

She saw it in the way he closed his hands into fists when Dumbledore announced they would be paired for this mission; she felt it in the silence during their train ride to that small town, a silence that she had never associated with James before; and how he clenched his teeth and buried his nails in the palm of his hands when the receptionist announced that there was a room reserved for a night in the name of Mr and Mrs Potter.

Mrs Potter. What a twisted joke.

Lily thinks of a wedding ring falling to the floor with a quiet thump, not twirling or rolling away. Just staying there. Lost. Forgotten.

Would she have said yes? She never found the answer to this question and one year later Lily swears it doesn’t matter. Fighting for her life, for a bigger cause, is more important than if her relationship with James could have taken another turn—

“Are you sure?”

Lily blinks. James’ voice seems to echo in the room. Sure? Are you sure?

“What?”

“About not wanting to rest. We should take turns.”

“You can take the first one. I am not tired.”

“Me neither. I slept late today.”

“I know,” she says before she can think better of. “It was a full moon yesterday.”

That comment—that careless line that shows how much Lily once knew about him—finally makes James turn to face her, the lights now illuminating his whole face; it’s the first time their eyes truly meet in one year.

James has changed, but the change is so nearly imperceptible that Lily just feels aware of how much she was familiar with him. Physically, he looks the same; hazel eyes behind rectangular glasses, dark messy hair pointing to every direction, if only longer than she remembers him ever spotting, full brown lips that are soft and a small scar at the side of his cheek from where he was cursed at sixteen.

But his eyes are harder than she remembers him ever looking at her; or maybe it’s because that for a long time, all Lily could think was about how heartbroken James was during that last day they had. Red eyes, torn apart—James always showed his emotions too clearly—, begging silently for Lily to not do it.

And that’s what he does now, only this time with words.

“Don’t do this.”

His words are softer than his expression. Lily would have preferred he had yelled, but that wasn’t very much James’ style.

“Okay,” it’s all she says.

James continues to stare at her; he seems angry now as if her quietness bothers him as much as his bothers her. He wants to argue with her, she realises, and this sends a jolt of adrenaline down her stronger than anything.

But that is James. He always makes her feel something.

“I did not ask to be here with you,” he says.

"I know."

"I didn't even know you were in the Order until a month ago."

There is the faintest trace of bitterness in his voice now, one that Lily knows the reason. She knew James was in the Order, had heard his name mentioned before—not just his, but his friends too, no surprise that where James was, so were the rest of his friends—but her own joining had been quiet. Few people had known she was in the Order, and she hadn't shared that news with James.

In fact, she had expressly asked Professor Dumbledore to not mention anything, a wish that had been dutifully respected until six hours ago, when Dumbledore had gathered them to ask them to go together for that stakeout mission.

It was Lily's first mission after that last disaster with Benjy. And considering the timing, she guesses how James found out about her in the Order after all.

"You heard about what happened," she mumbles, voice heavy now.

"On the newspaper," he confirms, eyes accusing. "I couldn't believe it at first, but then Dumbledore confirmed and… I thought you were working in the apothecary."

"I am. I was." Lily isn't sure if she still has a job, not when she doesn't go there for a month. "I was working there and for the Order."

He shakes his head, disapproval written all over his face.

"Would it be so hard to tell me?"

She pursues her lips for a moment, gathering her thoughts in order.

"I had no reason to share anything about my life with you, James."

She can feel the contradiction in her own words, the coldness of reminding him of their distance that doesn't match the warmness with which she involves his name, enveloping it in a layer of caress that it's been there ever since the first time she called him by his first name.

A part of her—that traitor part of herself that Lily never can totally extinguish, a fire that keeps burning despite the cold—wants him to realise this contradiction. To stare at her, urgent and hopeful, and to ask her why did she break up with him, why did she give up their dreams; the only bed in the room draws her attention even more as she thinks of everything they shared, every night and every morning, promises exchanged between kisses and touches.

It was real, she wants to tell him, but she can't. She told him it wasn't and James believed her then.

He still does, apparently, because he only listens to her distant words.

"No, you hadn't," he agrees, and they feel as apart as ever. "After this is over, you can go back to pretending I don't exist."

That's actually a good definition. All Lily has been doing in the last twelve months is pretending she doesn't care about James because the alternative… is painful.

And dangerous.

So she swallows every explanation and excuse she wants to give him, instead turning to the view outside. In the few minutes they got distracted, there was a movement outside.

Three figures are gathered in the square, dark hoods and cloaks obscuring their faces, but Lily knows all she would see would be their masks.

"Death Eaters," she mumbles, warning James, and passing him quietly a Muggle binocular that works pretty well despite any spell that might have been cast outside; purebloods always despise any Muggle technology.

James takes it, their fingers brushing with the movement; there is a small pause and Lily wonders if he also felt that current of electricity running through his body, that recognition of everything they ever shared in warm winter nights, promising spring days and until the start of the summer. But James just places the binocular in position and Lily picks up her wand to start the spell.

It's not very complex, but it needs to be cast with extreme precision so they won't realise they are being bugged. Lily works patiently, her movements fluid and slow, so concentrated that she jumps when she feels his arm holding hers.

"Lily," he calls, and something heavy on his voice drowns the realisation he is touching her on purpose. "Voldemort is here!"

Her spell is broken now, white mists disappearing in the air as she stares in the direction of the square, heart beating at a speed that has nothing to do with James' presence for once. It's a mix of fear and hate and an urge to do something.

Two encounters with Voldemort. 

She has survived him twice so far, the first one thanks to Dorcas' sacrifice and the second one because of fate's call that made Voldemort's spell hit Benjy instead of her. The second time landed her in the hospital for three days, at death’s door. She saw him kill two people she had cared for.

And now Voldemort is here and that's just her luck, isn't it, that her surveillance mission—Dumbledore asked them only to see what the meeting was about, he said there were only new recruits—just got more dangerous.

She thinks of Dorcas' eyes staring at nothing and Benjy's blood on her face and then Lily looks at James. He’s sober, decided.

The fear was never for herself.

"We should go," she whispers and predictably, James turns to her with a disbelieving expression. "We came here to check on newbies, not to—"

"We will get even more important intel!" he says, his low voice showing all his excitement. "This is even better."

"It's too risky. If he detects us—"

"Then we might take the son-of-a-bitch down. It's not my first go against him."

Lily shivers. "Our mission was surveillance, not to fight. We are outnumbered two to one at last."

And one of them is Voldemort, she doesn't say. 

"Bring two more bastards and it would be a fair fight," James says, and suddenly there is a cocky smile on his face that floods her with all the longing she had refused to feel ever since meeting him again. It's the smile she first despised then loved with all her heart.

And that's the reason Lily crosses her arms, her jaw set, adamant. "I won't go. We are done."

He flinches. Lily hates herself for the hurt that crosses his face, the recognition that shines on his eyes and then the anger that she is throwing back at him the same words she said when they broke up.

When she broke up with him.

"That's not about you and me," James hisses at last, grabbing the binocular once more. "I've faced him twice now and—watch out!"

His words haven't yet registered in her brain when Lily feels herself thrown to the ground, with James pulling her down. She hits the ground with a gasp, his warm body over hers taking her back to nights alone in the Heads rooms, his familiar musky scent involving her and—

—and then the window explodes in green flames, glass shards falling around them, the air unbearably hot now, taking the last breath out of her lungs. She coughs, blindly accepting James' hand as she feels him pulling her to the other corner of the room.

"Are you hurt?" He asks, concerned.

Lily coughs, shaking her head. Through the smoke, she sees that James has pulled her to the bed—the irony is not lost—, still intact after the explosion, and though there are a few cuts over his face and arms, he seems to ignore them as he stares at her.

"I'm fine. What—"

"We were spotted," he mumbles. "We should go."

Lily nods, grabbing her wand firmly in her hand, but years of studying complex charms tell her they will have trouble.

"It's protected," she says. "Apparition wards are in place."

"That doesn't make sense," James mumbles, and she knows what he is talking about. This kind of ward takes several minutes to be in place. If they were spotted only a few seconds before the explosion…

"They knew we were here. Someone betrayed us."

James shudders, staring at Lily as if her words make no sense.

"No."

"It doesn't matter right now. We need to move."

"Where?"

Lily sighs. "To the only place we know they won't have protected it. To the middle of the square."

He presses his temples for a moment; there is a wrinkle on his forehead that Lily suddenly wants to touch; if this is it, if this is her last minute on this planet, she would want to share a last laugh with him, maybe even die with the ghost of a last kiss on her lips.

But he opens his eyes suddenly.

“Let’s go. Wands down. Pretend we are just going to talk. As soon as you can, however, you disapparate.”

“I’m not leaving you behind, James!”

Something flickers in his eyes so quickly that Lily wonders if she imagined it. “You have to,” he says, voice steady. “We don’t have time to argue—someone needs to go warn the Order.”

“I can’t—you’ll be—”

But she can’t say it out loud, can’t really imagine a world in which James Potter isn’t there.

“I will not,” he assures, knowing exactly what she isn’t saying. “I’m the last Potter. He wants me alive.”

“How—”

A grimace pulls up his lips. “That’s how I’ve survived the other two times.”

*-*-*-*

Voldemort wants to recruit James.

Somehow, despite knowing this makes sense—James is a pureblood, and his recruitment would also bring Sirius Black to Voldemort’s supporters, a shot well-aimed against Dumbledore—, Lily can’t really imagine a world in which James is a Death Eater, wearing dark clothes with a mask, a skull tattooed on his skin and standing next to Voldemort’s pale face and red eyes.

James is too Gryffindor, too noble, too good for ever joining Voldemort’s side. He is a flame that could never be extinguished.

But there is none of his usual warmth as they walk outside, climbing down the wrecks of the building. Lily glances around, hoping no one was harmed in that explosion—the nice old lady who ran that inn, or the other couple who was on their honeymoon —, but she can’t see anyone, which she takes as a good sign. Next to her, James’ eyes are hard, fixated on the four people in the middle of the square, and when they leave the building, he rushes ahead as if he wants to shield her from view.

Lily fights back a sigh and takes a step to the side. She won’t let him protect her—that’s what she has been trying to do for months now, and for all she knows, she is already a target. But James—with his blood, the last descendant of an important wizarding line—isn’t at any risk.

No one moves. Voldemort stands at the other side of the square, his three followers almost forming a circle; there is a gap and, with a jolt, Lily realises it’s a gap for two people. She and James stop a few steps of reaching there, aware of the wands pointed at them—not Voldemort’s—, and that if they advanced, they would complete the circle perfectly.

She grabs her wand firmly inside her pocket, urging her face to not betray anything.

There is a still moment, then Voldemort smiles. “I’ve been waiting for you,” he says, voice soft.

It’s the first time Lily hears him saying anything other than a curse, but his voice still manages to make goosebumps rise on her skin at the same time hatred like she never felt before involves her. She thinks of Dorcas’ face permanently frozen and of Benjy exploding, and she almost raises her hand, ready to curse him in any way she can, but then James holds her arm, almost absently.

“You’ve interrupted our night,” he says, almost teasingly, and his comment makes one of the Death Eaters in the circle shift. 

“James, James. You can’t fool me. I know all about your failed mission. You were not here to court this lovely lady.”

Lily blinks. Lovely?

 “The night is still young,” James says, but he seems nervous now. “Why don’t you let her go while we talk—”

“Why would I deprive you from her company?” And then Voldemort turns his gaze at Lily, his smile still intact. “I’ve heard so much about you, my dear girl.”

She finds her voice. “I guess talking about Muggleborns is a pastime amongst your people.”

“Not our favourite pastime involving people like you,” he agrees, unfazed. “But once in a while, we make an exception. I’ve been meaning to meet you for a long time.”

“Me?”

“Yes, of course. And it’s so lucky you and James are here, together, the perfect couple.” He raises his hand, counting on his fingers. “Head Boy and Head Girl. First of your classes. Exceptionally bright. Brave.” He lifted the last finger. “And I’m willing to allow you both a choice.”

For a moment there is only silence, even the wind around them quieting down. Against her best judgement, Lily takes her eyes off Voldemort to exchange a glance with James that, for once, holds none of the resentment she has come to associate between them ever since they broke up. He looks as bewildered as she feels.

“A choice,” Lily echoes.

“Well, James here is familiar with my offer. How many times now, James? Two?”

“I seem to remember you didn’t take well my answers before,” he answers gravely, tapping his chest absently.

“You are alive, aren’t you? Many can’t say the same, as I’m sure your dear girlfriend can tell you.” Voldemort stares at her, his face betraying no real sympathy. “Your friend died bravely, but needlessly.”

“You murdered him,” Lily hisses, once more reaching for her wand only to be stopped by James, who glances around tensely. “You are nothing but a fucking sociopath, a bas—”

“I would hear my offer first,” he cuts her off, his smile flickering now, eyes glinting red. “It is not usually made for people like you.”

“So what?” she challenges, voice loud, ignoring how James just grabs her hand, throwing a warning look at her. “You want a Mudblood like me?”

Now Voldemort seems to gather her as a petulant child, amused by her tantrum. “Yes. I see talent where it lays, even with the most questionable blood. Even if, as James here, you would rather devote your attention to a lost cause.”

Lost, Snape once told her. You can't win.

“It’s not lost while I stand fighting you!”

“But you will fall. The Ministry cannot hold me. Dumbledore’s precious Order cannot touch me. You are doomed to die unless… you join me.”

“No.”

His cold smile doesn’t falter. “I see why you fancy her so much, James,” Voldemort says. “Spirited. As stubborn as you.”

James forces a smile on his face. “We all have our flaws—but that’s not hers. And we’ve been over this, Voldie. I will never join your side.”

“I did not take you for fools—or selfish. Being by my side is the only way for you to protect your… loved ones.”

Familiar faces cross her mind, everyone she ever cared for, maybe even talked to—friends, colleagues, professors, her sister—her only living relative, recently married, so distant—and then James at her side, the only man she ever really loved.

And once more she thinks about Dorcas never getting to smile again and how Benjy was just gone in a cloud of blood and gore and if anything happens to James on this mission, if she leaves here without him… she would never recover. If there is one chance for him to survive this, shouldn’t she take it? Sell her soul, all for the chance she couldn’t give to Dorcas or Benjy? Isn’t this the braver, even nobler choice? Isn't giving him a chance what she hoped for when she broke up with him?

One yes, one mark branded on her skin and she could protect him and maybe others, far more than she has done so far…

“Would you really protect them?” James asks, taking a step ahead, his face dark. “Even Sirius?”

“The black sheep?” Voldemort laughs scornfully. “If you can control your friend, remind him of his duty—why not? His young brother is mostly favourable to our cause.”

“James—” Lily calls softly. This doesn’t make sense. She is the one considering that macabre offer, why is James questioning it…

He ignores her.

“My friends won’t be hurt. Ever. And Lily walks away now.”

“James…”

“That’s the only way I’ll be accepting your offer.”

“No!” She takes a step ahead, pulls his robes, any incoherent thought of ever joining Voldemort vanishing from her mind. It was absurd for her and even more for James. He is good; he is kind and loyal and brave, and none of this fits Voldemort’s ideals. The good side—Lily—cannot lose him like that. “What the hell are you talking about?”

“This is the only way.”

“You cannot—”

James doesn’t look at her. “Let her go, and I will go with you.”

“You are not—”

“It seems she doesn’t want to go. What do you say, Lily Evans? Join the winning side, prove yourself a witch above your birth—”

“I’m never joining you! You killed my friends! You wipe off innocent people!”

“There is no innocence, only weakness.” He looks disappointed. “I didn’t take you for a fool, but very well. Join my circle, James, and I will let her go… this time.”

“No, I—”

“Lily.” James’ call is quiet, but his eyes burn into hers when she turns around. “Go. This is my choice— as we talked before.”

Before? His gaze urges her to understand what he means, to believe in him… and then, in that chaotic mess, she remembers what he told her. Pretend we are just going to talk. As soon as you can, however, you disapparate.

Relief—unstoppable, burning, bright relief—floods her. So James isn’t considering going dark after all. He is just crafting a plan, a way out so she can go ask for help, and even if he’ll sacrifice himself in the process…

No.

The relief is gone, replaced by despair and anger. She won’t leave him alone. If Voldemort as much as suspects a deception, or if they are already gone by the time she gets back with reinforcements… No, no, no. She won’t leave him.

And James knows it. She sees the moment that his eyes flash with urgency, begging her not to do anything reckless and a laugh escapes her lips with a curse when Lily turns around, her wand aiming for the closest Death Eater.

Spells are flying then, and James is rushing to cover their backs—two to one, she warned before, not very good odds especially when one of them is Voldemort—, but Lily doesn’t stop smiling.

She learned recklessness with James after all.

*-*-*-*

It’s been ten minutes since they sent off their Patronus, and Lily figures out it will take ten more minutes until anyone from the Order comes to help them.

She isn’t sure they can survive that long. It’s chaos on the square and she can only hope the lights don’t attract any innocent Muggle to the windows, anyone than can venture outside and get caught in the midst of explosions and curses flying. She doesn’t want to be responsible for anyone’s death.

And she is fighting to kill.

There is a time to be noble, to disarm instead of killing, but she can’t think about it at this moment. Unblockable green spells fly around and if she hesitates for one moment, if she isn’t fast enough, if she is in the wrong place at the wrong time… she can’t despair. She needs to be better and she needs to make sure, above all, that nothing happens with James.

Too bad he seems to think the same about her.

There are cuts on his arms and all over his robes that came from the same distraction: he’d been too busy trying to protect her instead of taking care of himself. Lily wants to scream at him, to throw back into his face every time he looked heartbroken at her after the end of their relationship, pointing out this is one of the reasons they couldn’t be together.

She endangers him in so many ways.

“Stop protecting me!” She finally snaps, deflecting a curse aimed for his back that he should have seen, only James was too busy with a spell that Lily would have blocked easily.

“If you had gone away I wouldn’t need to!”

“I told you I’m not leaving you!”

“Again, you mean?”

That’s unfair and also true, but Lily’s retort is cut when the fountain in the middle of the square explodes, the force of it pushing them behind. Her ears buzz, unable to hear anything for the moment, and her head seems as heavy as the smoke around them, but some clarity comes to her mind. If the square has been blown, then the wards will be off… She and James can both disapparate, regroup until they can come back and then face off Voldemort—she won’t let him kill anyone else, never again…

There is only one problem. She has no idea where James is.

Lily turns around, jumping when another spell flies towards her. She calls his name, barely hearing her own voice, head spinning and yet desperate to find James. He was right next to her, he must be close…

And then she is on the ground, screaming, her whole body struggling with unbearable pain, a thousand knives cutting her skin without drawing blood. Make it stop, just make it stop, she thinks, or maybe she cries it, because the pain is suddenly gone and, very distantly, she hears a cold laugh.

“You should have accepted it, girl. You wanted to.”

“No,” she mumbles, voice raspy. She doubted for a moment, she was willing to sacrifice herself, but she never wanted to be by his side. “I will kill you.”

He laughs once more, raising his wand. Lily stretches her hand—her wand is so close and she doubts Voldemort will just kill her simply—but she suddenly knows it.

This is the day I’ll die.

Voldemort is faster, his wand ready, and Lily can only hope to die with her wand on her hand, fighting for a lost cause. She grabs her wand just as the spell leaves his, and time stops.

Red spell. The same one that hit Benjy. No body to bury later. Only bits of her, splattered across the square, a warning for the mudbloods who dare to refuse Voldemort, who dare to fight even when there was no hope…

And then she sees James. Face ablaze, resolute, unbreakable. She was silly of doubting his allegiance, his loyalty. He could have been a fool when he was younger, but his heart had always been in the right place. And once Lily had realised this, she just couldn’t help herself. Falling in love with him had been the easiest thing in the world, as natural as breathing.

Breaking up with him had been the hardest thing in the world.

I was trying to protect you, she wants to say. I love you, she wishes she had time to say. Go away, she thinks.

He doesn’t. For all he called her stubborn, James had always been worse.

He is right in front of her, a blue shield emerging from his wand just as Voldemort’s spell hits him. For a moment, Lily dares to believe there is hope. 

She was always a fool.

James falls back to her side, all spells dismissed. Lily, he whispers with a last breath, and then there is blood coming out of each pore of his chest, a gruesome sight that belongs to her nightmares. He is dying, Lily realises, and Voldemort laughs watching her despair.

No, no, no.

She jumps over James’ body—he’s still warm, he’s still breathing, there is hope—and her eyes meet Voldemort’s red one—she vouches she will take him down someday—and begging for all gods that this doesn’t make James’ worse, she disapparates with him.

Darkness claims her and Lily sinks into it.

*-*-*-*

She dreams of the last day.

Not the day she broke up with him, just before graduation, just before she went to Dumbledore and told him she would join his Order, in secrecy, working behind the curtain.

No, she dreams of that one final happy day, when instead of joining their friends for a last walk in Hogsmeade, Lily stayed with James in the Gryffindor Tower.

They spent the day in bed, wrapped in sheets, watching the sunlight shining on their skins, glad that for once they didn't have to stay quietly hidden under the bed's curtains. And they had more time than usual to go slowly, to find out more about the other than they had so far.

There were many good moments that day, but Lily dreams of those last hours, when she was laying against him, her head on his chest, with James caressing her hair while they watched the sun setting in the opposite window.

The sky was pink, Lily remembers, full of fluffy clouds.

"I have to go," she'd said lazily. "Night patrol is mine."

"It's the last week before term ends," James answered her. "No one will break curfew tonight."

He was wrong, but he couldn't know then that Lily would meet her former best friend and that he would warn her against her choices; he couldn't guess that Lily would hear the warning and realise the danger she represented to James.

There were many things they both didn't know.

"I can show you the benefits of staying in bed," he'd added in her favourite mischievous voice, lowering his head to kiss her earlobe, her pulse.

"You've shown them all today," Lily had agreed, laughing.

"I still have a few tricks up my sleeve," he promised, and Lily had believed him. She'd turned around, allowing their lips to meet for a few seconds, their bodies glued together.

"We have time," she'd said (another mistake). "You can show me later."

He caressed her face, a reserved expression on his face. "Later. Do you really mean it? All the time we can?"

Lily nodded. James had smiled then, that beautiful happy smile that lighted up his whole face and that Lily had to answer—his happiness was unmatched—before he rose from bed.

"I will take a quick shower. Wait for me?"

Lily had acquiesced. James gave her a peck, almost jumping on the way to the bathroom. She remembers how contented he seemed and how she shared this until she rose to gather her own clothes.

When she picked up his cloak, a velvet box fell from the pocket.

Inside, there was a silver ring with two tiny gemstones—one was the color of her eyes, the other was amber. It was beautiful.

It scared her. It made everything real. It made her want to say yes.

She was already changed when James came out from his shower, wearing her own cloak, the box back to the pocket of his. She thinks she smiled at him, with a brave expression that hid all the tension she'd been harbouring.

"I think I should go alone," Lily said. "Go meet your friends, you've been away the whole day. You know how Sirius gets it."

"Jealous and needy?"

"Like a dog."

James had laughed; there were dimples at the corner of his mouth.

"Okay then. Be careful."

"It'll probably be boring."

"Should I save you a seat later?"

"Sure."

She'd turned, but James had held her hand, making her stop. His touch was warm, tender.

"Are you okay?"

"How could I not be?"

He cupped her face, thumb caressing her cheek, her lips; his eyes shone.

"I love you," he'd whispered.

And then nothing. Lily can never remember if she said she loved him back or how it was the last kiss they shared (a peck? A full snog that left her breathless? A slow kiss that lasted minutes?).

The next morning, when he'd nervously asked her for a walk in the grounds, his hands hidden inside the pocket of his cloak, Lily accepted only to break his heart. 

Lily blinks. The Gryffindor dormitory is empty save for her.

"James," she calls, looking around, opening all the curtains but there is no one there. She has been left alone as she asked him to let her. "James!"

No answer. When she looks back at his bed—a bed that speaks of winter nights and spring mornings, nights they only slept together at first, then progressing, evolving their relationship, making love to each other—there is blood.

"James!"

She jumps, nearly falling from the bed. The room is lit—sunlight comes filtered by the light curtains, sometime in the middle of the afternoon—, unfamiliar. Lily's last thought was of apparating to a place she'd felt safe—James' house at Godric's Hollow.

A quick look outside the window tells her she did it right—it's the village as she remembers, crowded at the end of the summer—but not his place. The mystery can wait, though. For now, she needs to find him and make sure that someone took care of him as she couldn't.

Her whole body aches as she walks outside the room, barefoot, her wand in hand. The door leads to the hall of a beautiful old house, ornamented with pictures on the walls; there are about six doors in this hall, but only the one right in front of her is closed and that's the one she opens, finding James laying on a bed like the one Lily just left.

He is still.

She rushes to his side, begging him to not… not him, please, he can't… I should have done it differently, I shouldn't have left him—

Her hand trembles as she touches his neck, feeling for the soft pulse, the proof his heart is still beating. When she pulls off the sheet over his bed, she sees a lotion over his bare chest, a blue one whose smell reminds her of dittany and bezoar. 

"He shall be fine."

The voice makes her startle, turning around, her wand ready, but even before she spins, Lily had already recognized his voice. In the corner of the room, almost hidden in the shadows, she sees the familiar face of her old headmaster; his blue eyes are glinting.

"Professor! You scared me."

"I'm so sorry, my dear girl," he says, and for a moment Lily remembers Voldemort calling her the same way. She shivers. "I'm glad to see you awake."

Lily nods. Now that Dumbledore is here, she feels strangely aware of the fact she is wearing only a nightgown, too thin, but Dumbledore doesn't seem to notice. He seems to be miles away.

"How long has it been?"

"Twelve hours. James woke up before you, but we needed to give him a Sleeping Potion so the Healing Draught could work. He was very adamant on seeing you."

She smiles against her will. "That's James. Will he be fine?"

"He will need a few weeks of rest until he's back in action."

"He won't be happy about it."

"No, you two seem very alike in this aspect. Can you tell me what happened?"

She sits at the edge of the bed, taking James' hand between hers—if Dumbledore notices it, he doesn't say anything—, and tells him everything that happened.

"They knew we would be there," she repeats at the end. "There is a spy."

"I know," Dumbledore admits gravely. "I have known ever since your mission with Benjy went wrong. No one should know about you, and yet—"

"You knew?" Lily asks, baffled. "And you didn't say anything? We could have—”

"The information about your and James' mission was kept safe. Only one other person knew."

"Who?"

"Sirius Black."

Lily shakes her head. "No, not him. He wouldn't betray James. They are brothers."

"So they claim, and yet… Voldemort knew. Somehow someone had access to that information without us knowing how."

"They must be spying on us or—"

"I believe so, yes, yes. Someone is feeding information to him and that's dangerous. Especially… especially now."

"Now, Professor?"

Dumbledore takes a moment to answer her. He goes to the window, the sun shining only over half his face, the other side covered in darkness.

"You said you and James denied Voldemort's request?"

She thinks of almost slipping, of the yes that she denied to James but considered giving to Voldemort.

Lily pushes that guilt to the deepest corner of her mind. "Yes."

"He will not take it lightly. There were others present and Voldemort cannot rule if anyone dares to question his power. Your own survival questions it, makes him look weak and that's not something he will forgive."

"Good," she whispers coldly. "Next time we will be ready, he will—"

"Next time," Dumbledore repeats, thoughtful. "How many times have you faced Voldemort now?"

"Two. I mean, three, but I don't think he knows I was there when… when Dorcas…"

She bites her lip. The green light had been burned into her memory for months after that; her nightmares were green, until, after Benjy, they became red.

"So did James. Three times. Both of you."

"That's… that's a strange coincidence."

"Or fate."

Lily grimaces. That's not the kind of fate she'd wanted for any of them.

"Professor—"

"You two need to stay hidden for a while. I have a cottage in the woods, near the Forest of Dean, that could be a safe haven for you until—"

"No," she says, flushing with the notion she interrupted him."I can't stay hidden, I'm fine and at no more risk than I was before. I can help the Order—"

"When you signed up, you said you would do whatever it took to make the world safer."

Lily glances at James. Now she knows he is out of danger, he looks just peaceful, as if he is just sleeping. His face always looks young like this; she thinks of carefree days, of laughs that were too short.

"That is all I want," she whispers. A safe world means a chance of happiness.

"With Voldemort gone?"

"Of course!"

"The greater good," Dumbledore whispers. "I once thought…" His voice dies. Dumbledore turns to look at her, his eyes piercing. "I have one mission you can do while you are away with James."

"Professor," Lily tries reasonably. "I can't go into hiding, not with James. There is a reason I asked you to keep my presence unknown—"

"There is a prophecy about Voldemort's demise."

Lily blinks. Dumbledore’s words make little to no sense and she almost expects him to crack a joke about it, but he remains strangely somber.

"A prophecy? As in Divination?"

"I recall you never took this class."

She shakes her head. The professor that ran that class—recently retired, if Lily remembers correctly—had the fame of being some sort of charlatan, with far more theatrics than any correct knowledge of foreseen the future. Mary had complained all three years she had stayed in that class. James had told her it had been a good laugh, but then he laughed in every class.

"There is a room in the Department of Mysteries full of orbs of prophecies that may or may not come true. Magic is so unpredictable sometimes… One year ago, I received a prophecy that spoke of the Dark Lord's demise."

"Okay…"

"It mentioned a person who would have the power to defeat Voldemort."

"So… is this real? Who is this person?"

"Do you believe in prophecies?"

"If you are telling me it's true, Professor, I—I think we should try every possibility."

"Do you?" Dumbledore's eyes seem to read her mind. "No matter what the cost? Would you sacrifice yourself to stop the Dark Lord?"

Dorcas' face got red when she drank, even after only one shot, and Lily remembers talking to her all night, sharing stories, even mentioning James (Dorcas had understood and promised her they would still find their way to each other). Dorcas had been a friend.

Benjy loved the rain. He would walk outside in the worst storm, not caring for anything other than feeling the raindrops on his face. They dated for a few weeks and though it hadn't worked out, he never questioned her for it. She had loved Benjy even if it wasn’t like he wanted her to.

And she thinks about them in the past because they were both killed by Voldemort.

"He blew up the inn you were staying in after you left," Dumbledore adds in a small voice, handing her a Muggle newspaper—The Daily Prophet doesn’t cover Muggle deaths anymore—that shows the black and white picture of that inn in flames. 

The old lady that ran the inn said she and James made a lovely couple, and offered them tea for the night. In the lobby they met a newlywed couple who couldn’t stop smiling at each other, clearly smitten, clearly happy. They had nothing to do with this mess.

"Fuck," she curses, fighting a sudden urge to cry. "We should have stayed, we should have protected them—"

"That's Voldemort's fault, not yours."

She knows it, but it doesn’t change anything.

"I will do anything to defeat him," she vouches. Dumbledore’s eyes pierce her, more powerful than ever, and a sudden chill runs down her body. "This prophecy… is it about me?"

As soon as she says it out loud, Lily feels silly. She is not special in any way. Just a young Muggleborn witch trying to make ends meet, desperate to survive and to protect those she loves and even those she has never met. If anything, a prophecy more likely would concern people like James—pureblood, heir to an old bloodline that was important enough to attract Voldemort’s attention, to request him…

"No," she whispers. "Please don't tell me… Not James…"

"No," he answers her slowly. "The prophecy speaks of a child who hasn't been born yet."

"A child?"

That doesn’t make any sense. How can a child have any power to defeat Voldemort? It feels too religious, too esoteric. Biblical, even.

“I do not know, but the prophecy says that a child will be born, and they will have the power to vanquish the Dark Lord.”

“That’s all the prophecy says?”

There is a brief moment of hesitation. “No, the prophecy also says… this child will be born in summer, to those who have thrice defied Voldemort.”

“Thrice,” Lily repeats slowly, the word taking a long moment to sink into her brain. She suddenly wants to laugh—a long, loud, crazy laugh that holds no happiness. “Dorcas. Benjy. Today.”

“That’s thrice,” Dumbledore agrees, and Lily suddenly wants to shake him, to take away his patience and above all the glint in his eyes that looks strangely glad, hopeful, triumphant. “As did James.”

“No.”

“Yes,” he says calmly. “He met Voldemort soon right after he graduated, then six months later—”

“But those times—James said he survived because Voldemort wanted him, so he didn’t defy him—”

“He denied Voldemort’s request on both occasions and now, with this last meeting… Thrice.”

“So—” She swallows hard. Her mind is overworking now, seeing everything with more clarity than she’d like, but still the words are difficult to say. “So then… I don’t—tell me what this means.”

“It means there is a prophecy foreseeing that a child will be born in the summer to those who have thrice defied Voldemort. And as of now, you and James are the only candidates to parent this child.”